


Sacrilege

by tweed_princess



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alabama, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Bad Southern Accents, Cults, F/M, Not Beta'd, One Shot, Religious Fanaticism, no zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7943155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweed_princess/pseuds/tweed_princess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Apocalypse Alabama. King Stannis intends to make Sansa his bride. He enlists Jon to protect her until she's old enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrilege

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this between batches of macarons, over a span of a few hours. I was listening to 'Sacrilege' by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and got an idea. It's kind of out there. I'm sorry if it sucks.  
> Kudos+comments are always appreciated.  
> You can find me complaining and being unemployed at disorganizeddomesticgoddess.tumblr.com

When Jon is cleansed, he is just a boy, no older than twelve.  

He’s seen dozens before him go through the ceremony. He can recite the prayer from memory. But today, he is so overwhelmed, so overcome by the weight of this commitment to the Lord of Light, that he can barely speak more than an ‘I will’. He can't hear the prayer over the sound of the blood roaring his ears.

He walks slow and steady, like a man should, crushing those glowing coals into dust with his blackened feet. When he is done, King Stannis is there to raise his fist in the air like he is a champion. Everyone cheers for him; Jon can't help but grin.

His eyes find a redheaded girl, Robb's little sister, watching from the entrance to the barn. She does not cheer for him. As soon as his eyes meet hers, she runs away, back into the darkness of the barn.

\--

“He means to take her for a bride, it ain’t right!”

“We’ve known this was coming. She was born with that red hair, Robb. It’s been known since King Stannis arrived.”

“She’s only fourteen!”

“Do you think he cares about that?” Cat’s voice drops to almost a whisper. Her blue eyes, the same as Sansa’s, are wet as she grabs Robb by the shoulders and shakes him. “In the King’s eyes, Sansa is a gift to him. A blessing from the Lord of Light.”

Robb looks to Jon, eyes pleading for… something.

“He’ll pump her full of children. You know what happens when girls her age have babies...”

“What choice do I have?” Catelyn says, exasperated. Jon knows what she means. He burns people at the stake. He'll do it to their whole family and have Sansa anyway. “You boys go get some firewood. It’ll be night time soon.”

Robb and Jon walk the other side of the house and pull the blue tarp off the pile of split logs that had been delivered earlier in the week.

“Stannis likes you,” Robb says. Jon is instantly filled with unease. “He’s always liked you.”

“I’ve proved myself loyal to him,” Jon says cautiously. “I’m a dedicated soldier for the Lord of Light.”

Robb scoffs. “Do you really believe this… _shit_ he tells us? We were fine for years; he just waltzes in…”

 _I have to believe it._ Jon says nothing. He hates this. He’ll do anything for Robb, his best friend since they were children. He’s not sure if he can do this.

“You have to ask him. Please… just get him to hold off a few years. She’s so young. She’s still a child. Let her be a child, Jon.” There’s that look again. He may have the Tully blues, but his eyes carry the sadness of a Stark.

Jon nods, swallowing thickly. “I will try.”

\--

Queen Selyse brings King Stannis a clay jug from the icebox and pours liquid into two metal cups before scurrying out of the room. She leaves the jug on the table.

King Stannis takes a gulp and hisses through his teeth. Jon takes a sniff of his. Moonshine, most likely. Jon sips his; it burns his throat.

“So, the Stark boy wants me to hold off on marrying his sister.” Jon nods. “Does he realize that I need sons?”

“My lord, it would only be a few years. I guess I thought that your daughter with the Queen would come first…”

He snorts. “A girl.”

_So have another._

The king grunts, takes another swig of moonshine. “Alright. I’ll wait until she’s eighteen. But.” There’s always a condition. “I need you to watch after her. She’s pretty. Men are leering at her already. Keep ‘em away from her. I don’t trust ‘em.”

“Yes, sir.”

\--

He understands what the King means about Sansa and men when he takes her through town one day. She is growing like a weed, despite her mother’s predictions that she would have stopped growing at thirteen. She’s fifteen now and it seems her legs are getting longer every day.

He pulls her aside once they get to her mother’s house.

“You've gotta stop wearing things like that.” He means her skirt and her blouse, which show more skin than what she usually wears. “Men are starting to notice.”

Something flashes in her eyes. “Do _you_ notice?”

“No,” he lies. “I’m here to protect you. The King wants me to protect you. He cares about you.”

She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m sure all the men in town _care_ about me.”

\--

She is sixteen now, fifteen months away from her eighteenth birthday. Fifteen months away from the day she becomes a wife, a queen, and soon after, a mother.

She’s coaxed him into going down to the creek to hunt for plants. He’s polishing his shotgun when she emerges from the woods, a wreath of dark green leaves and little white flowers on top of her pretty red hair. In her long white dress, she looks just like a goddess from the book about the ancient Greeks he’d sneak a peek at once in a while when he was little. He can’t help it; his heart swells.

She presents to him a wreath of his own, thicker but with the same dark green leaves. There are no white flowers, though. He gives her a funny look, but she sets it down on his head anyway.

“They’re not poisonous,” she says as she plops down beside him on a rock. “Don’t worry. I know my plants. Ain’t much to do out here but study plants and things.”

He looks at her, and she’s grinning. He sets down his shotgun.

“Is there shells in there?”

“Nah,” Jon says.

“How are you supposed to protect me from _eeevil_ , lecherous men?” Her eyes are sparkling now, mischievous. “Petyr cornered me the other day. Touched my hair. He told me I was as pretty as my mama.”

His hands tighten into fists. He bites back his rage like a swallow of King Stannis's moonshine. “You scream real loud if he does that again, you hear me?”

She giggles and stands. “Why?” She hikes up her skirt and swings a leg over his lap. Her hands play with the buttons of his shirt. _Oh, shit. Not again._ He can’t resist her. “Does the King wish for his betrothed to be… untouched? I’ve been touched, Jon. _You’ve_ touched me.”

 _On second thought…_ He takes a glance around their surroundings, makes sure no one is watching before she captures his lips with hers.

Her legs wrap around him as he picks her up, carrying her to soft ground. He lays her down gently and just looks at her. He’s in awe of her laying in the grass, all red hair and porcelain skin and blue eyes.

She draws a foot up his calf, up his buttocks, and lets it rest over his hip, pulling him closer to her. He kisses her again, and her lips taste like the raspberries that she found on a bush just an hour before.

He pushes up her dress and removes her underwear, finds her wet, willing, ready.

“We don’t have much time,” she says. “I need you. Now.”

He obliges her. He unzips his pants and thrusts into her.

It doesn’t take him long. He spends on her thigh and he feels immense guilt at not letting her come. He swears to himself that he’ll make it up to her next time as he kisses her sweaty brow.

“I love you,” she murmurs into his neck. He can’t say it back. It’s wrong.

\--

He isn’t so sure about the Lord of Light anymore.

She’s a month away from eighteen, and a month away from her wedding. She has withdrawn herself from him; from everyone, really. Her eyes are rimmed with red most times that he sees her.

One day, she asks him to take her to the creek again. She wants to find flowers to press; she’s got a whole album of them now. She writes little notes in the margins of it in neat cursive, fancy Latin words that she’s pulled from some old book written before the end times began.

She picks pretty little white flowers with gold centers and tells him that they’re Alabama gladecress, _Leavenworthia alabamica_. He won’t remember it, and tells her so.

She leads him down a trail for a few minutes and then spins around suddenly. “You’ve spent all these years protecting me.” Her tone is almost accusatory.

“Of course!” he says defensively. Her eyes narrow.

“From what? From men? Men who might violate me.” He nods. “You’re just saving me for my soon-to-be rapist.”

He wants to argue with her, that Stannis is a good and kind king that will love her and keep her safe and happy, but the words die in his throat. Jon would be that kind of king. Not Stannis.

“Of course you have nothing to say to that,” she says angrily, and keeps walking ahead.

\--

He’s nuts, absolutely out of his mind.

It’s the night before her wedding and he’s managed to sneak into through her window. She bolts upright when his boots hit the floor.

“Shh. Pack some things. We’re leaving.”

“What?” she asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “We can’t just leave, they’ll look for us.”

“We’ll have to stay two steps ahead of them.”

“How? We have no vehicle.”

He pauses, frowning. “Your brother gave me his truck.”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh, no you don’t, Jon Snow. He’s not getting involved in this. They’ll kill him.”

He sighs and holds up the note that he’s written, just to protect the Starks. “No they won’t. I’m a lust-driven traitor who’s stolen your brother’s truck and the future queen.” He knows that’s what they’ll say, these people he's known all his life. It hurts.

She hesitates. “Where will we go?”

“I don’t know.”

She packs some clothing and her flower journal, nothing else. When grabs her by the hand and takes her through the house to the front door, Robb is waiting for her. He gives her a sweet, brotherly kiss on the forehead and holds her tight to his chest.

“I put some tins of food in the truck… should last you a few days. Go! Get out of here.”

“Come with us,” Sansa says, holding a hand to his face.

“Can’t. Someone’s gotta take care of Mama and the little ones. Just go!”

She’s sobbing as Jon drags her away, out to the front yard and into the truck.

They’re flying down the road in no time, as fast as they can go in such a beat up truck and on such a worn-down road.

\--

They’ve been driving for hours when he decides to pull off somewhere.

They’re in the middle of a ghost town. He parks behind an abandoned factory and pours some of the biodiesel that Robb’s given them into the fuel tank.

“Looks like a clear night,” Sansa says, coming up behind him with a blanket around her. Her red hair is frizzed from riding with the windows down. “We could sleep in the back of the truck.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Mosquitos like you too much, darlin’.”

“S’pose so.” She leans into him, face in his chest. He wraps his arms around her and sighs, glad that she still wants to touch him. She hasn’t since that day in the forest a month ago. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere in Mississippi, I reckon.”

“Is Mississippi far enough from Alabama?” She sounds concerned. Neither of them have ever been to Mississippi or anywhere besides where they were born, but they’d seen it enough times on old maps, including the one stuffed into the glove compartment of Robb’s truck.

“Not sure,” he answers honestly. “We should keep moving, come morning. Just to be safe.” She nods.

He makes love to her on the bench seat of the truck that night, using his hands and mouth to make sure that she comes not once, but twice. As he thrusts into her and kisses and nibbles at her neck, she comes a third time, and he spills inside her. She cries sweet, happy tears in his arms, pressing a dozen tender kisses to his face. 

Maybe they’ll find a new town, one that will welcome them. She won’t have to be anyone’s queen. They can raise chickens and children and grow flowers. Maybe that place is in Texas, or California. Maybe even Mexico. It’s a nice thought. He'll tell her all about it later.

She squirms against him, snuggling closer to his chest. “Happy Birthday, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her ear as she falls asleep. “I love you."

\--

fin


End file.
